


and the sky with no clouds

by blanchtt



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: “I can fix that, if you’ll let me,” Lou says, pretty face drawn and serious, like she’s said every time that Debbie has asked her to fix something in the schoolhouse for her, though more lightly back then—first the roof that leaked, an actual need, and then after that smaller and more useless fixes, just to have an excuse to talk. A warped door. A window that wouldn’t shut right. A lightbulb burnt out.





	and the sky with no clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Kissin' Kate Barlow AU.
> 
> (I used Deborah in place of Debbie bc I don't think that was a nickname back then. Also, Deborah is just a really pretty name.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are three things that have landed her here: her brother’s death, a leaking roof, and Lou Miller’s smile.

 

The first is the reason she is in Green Lake, Texas, pretending to be everything she’s not; the second the reason Lou is in front of her, on a dark rainy night when everyone else with good sense is at home; and the third the reason she is in the leaking schoolhouse after hours in the first place, grading with cool wet tracks on her cheeks and salt on her lips she hasn’t bothered to lick away.

 

The door to the schoolhouse is closed and the simple latch dropped to lock it and the windows are drawn because she’s never liked anyone being able to see her when she can’t see them, and they are alone so Lou’s hand slides over hers, warm despite being dripping wet from the rain pouring down outside, and Deborah closes her eyes.

 

Head down, Deborah reminds herself, knows it’s futile anyway because Lou does things to her and now she can’t really get on Daniel’s case about his girl anymore, can she? Just keep your head down and get out of Green Lake alive, Deborah thinks, alive and with everything she and Daniel had stolen and that she’d stashed underneath her bed when she’d come out west to lay low. Head down, and all that’s yours, plus more.

 

But there is the creak of Lou’s weight shifting on the old, dry hardwood floors, Lou’s hand on top of hers caressing hers softly with her thumb, calloused and rough from her work, and then even with eyes closed Deborah knows Lou is leaning close, can picture it, can feel her, and then there is the soft press of lips against her own, sweet and simple.

 

She’d known from the moment she’d seen Lou about town, no matter how Lou carried herself or cropped her hair or wore pants and a vest or pulled her hat down low or fixed anything and everything in town better than any man she’d met—Deborah had known, had crossed her legs at the ankle, coy, and let her long hair sweep over her shoulder as she’d sat on one of the desks in the schoolhouse and asked Lou what she was doing as she worked on the stuck window just to hear Lou keep talking in that voice of hers, about what wood worked best for doorframes or how exactly to find water in the desert with only a knife or about the work she did in the goldfields back in California or of her childhood in Australia.

 

She’d known and Lou had known, too, had flirted back with a broad grin and her staunch refusal to take any sort of payment, and then the fact that Lou had been incapable to staying away—showing up at the schoolhouse once class had let out, leaning against the doorframe with a thumb tucked between skin and the fabric of her slacks, slung low, watching with cool blue eyes and asking if there was anything else she could do for Deborah—not like Sherriff Becker, not like him watching and leering and insinuating, “Is there anything _else_ I can do for you, Miss Ocean?” when she’d asked about getting someone to repair the window—and always assuring her without a hint of pride, “I can fix that.”

 

Deborah does not allow herself to move, and because of that and her silence Lou steps back just the tiniest bit, weight back on her heels, stance strong and not half-leaning over the desk, and that press of lips against her own gone, though Lou’s hand is on hers still as Deborah opens her eyes.

 

“I can fix that, if you’ll let me,” Lou says, pretty face drawn and serious, like she’s said every time that Deborah has asked her to fix something in the schoolhouse for her, though more lightly back then—first the roof that leaked, an actual need, and then after that smaller and more useless fixes, just to have an excuse to talk. A warped door. A window that wouldn’t shut right. A lightbulb burnt out.

 

Deborah Ocean prides herself on being a woman with a plan.

 

Now, her brother. If something were to go wrong and his back-up plan were to fail, like it did back in Atlantic City three months ago, Daniel Ocean might not care enough about the outcome, might not mind to go down in a blaze of glory like their father just for the hell of it, for the fame, even if it means never being able to enjoy the fruits of their labor. They’ve never gotten in a jam bad enough for her to see that recklessness in him before, and now that the whole thing’s gone belly-up Deborah sees it clear as crystal.

 

No. Not her.

 

_Plan A – Stick To The Plan_

_Plan B – Variations On The Plan Allowed As Needed_

_Plan C – Code Red, or: Smile Real Pretty And Get Out By Any Means Necessary_

_Plan D – Get The Hell Out Of Town_

 

“Deborah,” Lou says, and it’s a question all in its own, tone almost hurt but Lou kind but also proud enough to cover it up, and Deborah knows if she says anything but _yes_ that Lou will back off, leave her alone, that she can keep keeping her head down and make it out of Green Lake without issue. Lou will repair the schoolhouse and she will teach the children as best as she can even though she’s always better at stealing than schooling, and one day when the heat’s off she can pack up and leave with her things when the time is right, like the last woman from back east who tried to teach here.

 

Except the last teacher in Green Lake wasn’t a con artist, hiding from the law, and deeply, hopelessly in love with Lou Miller.

 

Deborah stands because she knows there’s only so long Lou can wait before her hopes are dashed and things between them change irreparably, knows she doesn’t want them to, damn the consequences, and Deborah steps around her desk, Lou’s hand guiding her like they’re out at a dance, careful, and then towards Lou, and whether this is a run-of-the-mill bad idea or a truly disastrous one no longer matters—all that does is Lou’s arm slipping around her waist like it’s always supposed to have been such a warm and easy thing to do, pulling her close, flush against her and smelling like leather and wet earth because of the rain and tilting her head just enough, index finger under Deborah’s chin, to kiss her oh so softly.

 

We can split this three ways, Deborah wants to say—wants to, because she wants to believe Daniel is still alive somewhere, holed up quiet with Rusty as that gunshot to the leg’s healing up, ready to get back into the game as soon as he can walk again, and wants to because she wants Lou to run away with her and do morally terrible things together involving marks and cons and fences, because Lou is too smart, too bold, too _much_ for a simple, petty place like Green Lake, Texas.

 

But that can be discussed later.

 

Deborah lets her right hand slip up over Lou’s chest, teasing, to her shoulder, and holds tight at the lapel of Lou’s rain-damp jacket she finds there, fingers grasping at the fabric, and lets her other arm curl around Lou’s shoulders. From experience, she knows she needs only a tug on a lapel there and the curl of her arm here before the mark crumbles, but this is Lou and not a mark so Deborah hugs Lou close with one arm as she rises up on her tiptoes to part her lips and deepen the kiss and let slip a little moan as the _coup de grâce_ as she tugs on the lapel, and _ta-dah_ —there is Lou groaning into her mouth, breath loud, pressing her back, back as they stumble for a step and then bump up against the desk.

 

From the moment she’d learned to crawl, her mother had told her, she’d clambered after Daniel and her father, trying to imitate them, their light steps, their sleighs of hand, and as children robbing imaginary banks and made-up hotels in the style of outlaws was what she and Daniel had often done in the hours left unsupervised in the alleys and streets. Cops and robbers never really took hold, and neither did cowboys and Indians.

 

Deborah lets go of Lou, safely held between her and the desk, reaches back and braces hands against the desktop, steadies herself and slides just a bit up and back, just barely resting on the desk, and Lou places her hands palm-down on the desk, close to hers, leans in with an easy motion that is unpracticed and unhurried.

 

“Troublemaker, aren’t you?” Lou jokes, voice low and pleased, and Deborah closes her eyes, accepts the kiss and smiles into it and nips and feels the moment sweep and dip, feels Lou’s hips nudge at her knees, urging them apart. There is nothing more she wants than this right now, and Lou barely has to ask—Deborah parts her legs, grateful for the give of the long linen skirt, and feels Lou with another step settle between her thighs, good and close, along with the brush of Lou’s tongue against her lips, seeking, and Lou’s hands at the small of her back.

 

They can do it again, Deborah wants to say, they can con people and make it work, and she does not think about Daniel and Rusty because Rusty is gone and Daniel may be _gone_ gone but now Lou is here, sharp-eyed and tender and fucking her slow and loving, and Deborah’s hands slip down to Lou’s belt, tugs once in delight and then untucks her shirt and lets her hands travel up under it over a slim stomach and cups Lou’s breasts. It would be easy enough to grab her horse and for Lou to ready hers, to pack her things and leave Green Lake whenever they want and to head out west again, further than she’s ever gone this time now, and to get lost in the mountains and hills and pine trees of California, to try again in gold or bartending and to make it big this time, just the two of them, no male egos to ruin a con.

 

“Lou,” Deborah says, breathless as she breaks their kiss, but Lou’s right hand slides up her side, over her shoulder, cradles her jaw and holds her still as Lou kisses the corner of her mouth and then her cheek and then her jaw and then noses away stray dark tresses and kisses down the side of her neck, hot and open-mouthed, the kind that might involve the scrape of teeth here and there, gentle, and that draw a small and needy noise from the back of her throat.

 

She lets her hands slide from Lou’s breasts around to her back under her shirt, pulls Lou to her as best as she can and lets her nails prick lightly at Lou’s shoulder blades, crosses her ankles behind Lou’s legs to hold her there, touching as much of her as she can because she’s just a shade lightheaded with need. Lou’s free hand is no longer braced against the desk, instead on her knee now, the fabric of her long skirt rumpling under it as Lou lets it slide up higher, slow and contented, and there is an ocean between her legs, warm and wet and insistent, and Deborah lets out a particularly loud gasp that trails off into a keen as Lou bites down lightly, not one bit of that playing coy because Lou’s hips have _finally_ started to move in a rhythm against her.

 

She grips hard, never lets go because Lou can move and the feet of the desk as squeaking against the hardwood floor and finally there is Lou’s hand between her thighs, fingers curling in and up and soothing that ache deep in her cunt that has Deborah tilting her head against Lou’s shoulder, reaching up and pressing a hand hard over her mouth to keep from making any more noise than she already is as she comes undone and Lou works her gentle her through it.

 

But she’s never been a selfish lover, and Deborah lets herself gather her breath as she comes down and Lou peppers kisses over her, pushes at Lou’s shoulders once she’s good and watches as Lou steps back, brings her hand to her mouth, and licks her off her fingers with the lave of her tongue.

 

As much as she would like to get her mouth on Lou even more so now, there is little room and so Deborah works slow and deliberate at this instead—eyes downcast, focused, she reaches for Lou’s belt, and there is some tugging once or twice which is not from lack familiarity around a woman’s belt, no, far from it, and then the end of the leather belt come free of the metal buckle with a clink and Deborah pulls it through until it’s slack and swallows, licks her lips, smirks at the noise it gets from Lou and slides her hand between warm skin and fabric.

 

“Louise Miller,” Deborah propositions in her sweetest voice, can’t help but smile at the soft stroke of her finger against Lou’s slick clit that gets a pretty little sound out of Lou, blue eyes dark and hazy as Lou arches against her now. “Run away with me.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She finds Claude drinking in the jail and shoots him in the heart—would rather shoot him in the head for all the lecherous comments he’s made and his inability to keep his hands to himself, but it’s more poetic this way and a lot less messy, and Deborah draws her lipstick out, pops the top off the tube and twists the bottom, applies a fresh coat of dark matte scarlet and purses her lips to even the color out before leaning over and kissing Sheriff Becker’s cheek just enough to leave a clear mark of a woman’s kiss.

 

Strike while the iron’s hot, she remembers their father telling her and Daniel, the two of them on his knee as he imparted some no-doubt illegally gained advice to his children. Something about having the judgement to figure out the right timing.

 

Deborah slips out the door of the jail and into the night, doesn’t care a whit about the men locked up to dry out for the night inside who have seen it all because the right time is _now_ , bags packed, Lou waiting on her horse outside, cutting a dashing figure. She’s always hated those adages—never enough room for leeway, for plans other than _get it right_ or _fail_.

 

She takes the reins of her own horse, gets her boot in the stirrup and hand on the saddle, pushes up and slides a leg over it and sits, gives her mare a kick with the heels of her boots, and leaves Green Lake behind with the snap of her reigns, Lou riding alongside her.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
